The Devious Diary of Mlle Daae
by Honey Jenkins
Summary: Christine has two desires: one for music, and one to own the famous Populaire. Her only interest in Raoul or Erik is what unwitting aid they can bring to her schemes. Who will win a game no one knows they're a part of? E/C R/C
1. Wandering Child

**Chapter One - Wandering Child**

Daddy Daae did not die a poor violinist as everyone believes. Quite the contrary, he left me to inherit a comfortable fortune that could keep a less ambitious woman easily contented for the rest of her trivial life. Indeed, this is how Daddy Daae always preferred us to live: simply, quietly, poorly. He was very proud of his little girl's voice, but was too humble in mind to use any of his wealth towards furthering her singing career.

When my father left this earthly life, I was sent to live with a fat, tidy woman who was all kindness and no brains. I thought of hiring a master tutor for myself, and continuing on to be the greatest, most celebrated soprano that this country has ever heard. I certainly have the God-given talent to do just that. However, I needed time to think. No one knows how much wealth was left to me. In fact, it's assumed I have nothing at all. All the dealings I had with lawyers and money handlers were handled in private, with the utmost discretion. The general consensus is that I don't speak of money, as I have no money to speak of. This worked to my advantage when pity compelled Mme. Valerius to let me stay as a guest in her house for nothing.

As I mulled over my situation, I pretended to be so struck by Daddy Daae's death that I could no longer bear the thought of singing without his guiding hand. This gave me the chance to collect my thoughts and keep nosy old women out of my business. No one is obnoxious enough to distress a young orphan so melancholy and prone to fits of sighing.

I wanted to make singing my profession. I've always wanted to sing. Nothing could be more fulfilling than standing on a lighted stage in the most renowned opera house in all of France, keeping thousands of patron's enthralled by the spell of the perfectly devastating, crystalline richness of my entrancing voice. What could instill such a feeling of power? Nothing else in the wide world.

Or so I thought before Mme. Cauchon came to call.

For the first forty minutes of her visit, she rattled away all the details of petty people, their shoes, their spouses, and their scandals. I kept to my place in the corner, demurely occupying myself in decorative stitchery. It's easy to keep up a façade of industry as long as one imagines each stab of the needle to be embedding itself by your "delicate" hand into the eyes of the gossiping sow sitting across the room. My interest was piqued when the troubles of M. Lefevre, manager of the Opera Populaire were made known.

Apparently, he was being plagued by some trickster that caused a few headaches in their latest production when a certain salary wasn't paid. Nothing I concerned my whirring little thoughts over for long. The important thing was the opera house. To sing inside it would be a triumph, but to own the Opera Populaire! I took a care not to dwell on the thought in the Madame's' company for fear that my beating heart would sound some kind of alarm. They mustn't know what thrills are sent quivering over my frame at the prospect of such a masculine ambition. I know I have the acumen to accomplish anything. Why set my sights on something countless women have already done before me? I will not stop at owning the stage, but the whole of the opera house, down to the last chandelier crystal.

However, I had no conceivable way of attaining my goal. I have money, it is true, but I barely have enough to purchase a little theatre, let alone the Populaire. And there is the upkeep to consider. An opera house requires a hundred and more details to be sorted each day; all of which require francs in abundance. To live as the grand lady I could be would waste my growing assets and stifle my dream before the fruits of my plotting could ripen.

The curse of my gender is another setback. No one is going to take a woman seriously who wants to own an opera house of such prestigious renown. I need a man to charm into my designs. A man with a titled position in society. A man with status, and money.

Opportunity came when my temporary guardian suggested I continue cultivating my vocal talent under the instructors at the Populaire. A little reflecting showed this to be the best course of action. I accepted with the proper hesitation for someone still suffering inside over the loss of her father, and was soon installed into the world of performers and directors, all of whose jobs will be mine to purchase and trade when I am the owner of this establishment.

Everything is working exactly as I anticipated.

I sing just well enough to remain a faceless chorus girl, and in the company's mind I strive for no better. I receive no censure from Mme. Giry for less than exemplary dancing, nor am I privy to the praise and commendation of a lead soprano. No one is aware of my incredible gift. The only one who could have told my secret is resting in his tomb with a collection of stone angels guarding his sleep.

Living in the dormitories with the other ballet girls allows me to live cheaply. My lawyer, ironically named Marcel Lamont, meets with me secretly whenever my monetary balances require discussion. I'm certain he believes there's reason to kindle hope for a relationship of a less businesslike nature, but the lad will continue to deceive himself as long as he serves a purpose. There is a constant flow of titled men who come to the opera, paying homage to the fine arts, and giving me no limit to my choices for unwitting benefactor. So far there are no outstanding prospects on that front, but my expectations are high.

I've determined to make an account of all the happenings concerning my opera house in case an alteration in plans is necessary. This diary will allow me to look back and be sure nothing slips past my notice. Lefevre must be watched. Carlotta, the leading diva soprano will be brought to her place in time. Sweet little Meg, who thinks me the dearest, most innocent child in this deceptive circle will someday have the position she deserves and her mother has worked so hard for.

Yes, I call it my opera house. For although I play the part of a wandering child, grieving in silence for a deceased father, I shall one day be the power and mind behind all the silly puppets I live among.

Mme. Giry is tapping her cane for the lights to be extinguished. I must remain the submissive child and obey at once.


	2. Opera Ghost

**Chapter Two – Opera Ghost**

Apparently my opera is haunted.

The troupe of ballet girls is disturbed beyond reasoning whenever hair ribbons, powders, or any other toiletry goes missing. The retribution of Mme. Giry for such carelessness is enough to make a grown man quiver. The girls, therefore, have taken it into their heads that blaming these incidents on a ghost will get them out of trouble. The remarkable thing is that occasionally, it works.

Mme. Giry seems to have a close connection to this ghost of the opera, for she acts as if she knows when something's been snatched by the ghost, and when it's only an excuse.

"Jammes," she'll reprimand, "the ghost could not have taken it. What would a ghost want with your comb, anyway? Stop this nonsense, and get back in line." Only two days previously, she told Marie that her smelling salts would be replaced when another complaint was brought to her about the same mischievous entity.

This perplexes me. I admire Mme. Giry for her hard, strict nature. These foolish girls are in constant need of correction, and the Madame never hesitates to give it. I wonder then, why she plays along with their phantom stories. If it is a ploy to scare them into submission, I must admire her all the more. How clever to turn their own imaginations into a method of discipline! I wonder then, if she takes on the duties of opera ghost herself, pilfering their little items as a way to further her hold on them. I have often found my own possessions to be in the habit of disappearing when I'm quite sure it was not I who moved them. I don't make a fuss, but simply borrow from another girl, or make do without. I have noticed that Meg's things never vanish in this way.

Could this be the work of Mme. Giry? I wouldn't be surprised to find out that it's all an elaborate hoax to keep the ballet girls in line.

I wish Carlotta believed in the opera ghost. She continues to be a thorn in my side, parading about with the airs of a Spanish queen, and half the talent of a circus monkey. I wish someone would see fit to haunt the life out of that woman. They say the most beautiful roses have the worst kind of thorns, but Carlotta must be all thistles. I was sorely tempted last rehearsal to sweep past her divine visage and show M. Lefevre what I am capable of. However, I must be cautious. I cannot reveal myself to anyone. No one trusts the Spanish diva with their secrets, but a harmless chorus girl can have eyes and ears in every crack and cranny.

_--Later--_

The strangest thing has occurred! Even I can hardly make sense of it! I was sitting in Carlotta's dressing room, as I often do to practice my "unpracticed" voice when she is out filling her gut with crème filled pastries, you see, it is not a simple task, pretending to sing badly, when a man spoke to me from somewhere inside the walls!

"Christine," he said in a way that made me tremble, though not in fear, "sing."

I was too struck to retort that I_ had _been singing, and telling me to do something I was already in the midst of was only going to make me stop out of contempt. That wouldn't have been quite fair though, as I had not been singing in the best sense of the word.

He spoke when I failed to. "Your voice is beautiful my dear, but it is all too apparent that you have had no training." The echo seemed to come from everywhere at once, filling every crack in the walls and all the space in the room with his deep, manly tones.

"But I have no one to teach me," I mourned. "And since my father died, singing brings me no joy."

"I will teach you," he said. "If you allow yourself to be put under my guidance, and tell no one that I have ever spoken to you, I will make you great, Christine!"

"Who are you, my teacher?"

"I am your angel of music. Haven't you been waiting for me?"

The angel of music. That silly story father used to tell me when I was a girl. I couldn't imagine how the voice could have known the legend… and then I remembered the night I told Meg all about it in the chapel. Of course I don't believe a word of it, but Meg's a better Catholic than I am and she does believe in spirits and things.

It seems I've accepted singing lessons from a mysterious voice that haunts the walls of my dressing room!

Haunts…

Perhaps there's more to the ballet girls' tales of a ghost than I previously considered. Of course I still don't put any faith in spirits flitting about to torment the living, but this… man who seems more than a man speaks with such a profound sadness that makes me think he may be tormented by his own ghostly demons of the past.

Whatever the case, I've found a man to give me singing lessons whilst my assets go undisturbed. No matter that he thinks me completely ignorant in musical matters. I can learn more than music while he tutors me.

* * *

Author's notes: I'm trying to update this one as quickly as possible, since I'm currently working on about twelve different fictions (only two of them fanfics) at once, and I wanted this to be a fun, "what if?" side project instead of a heavily involved and drawn out drama. So forgive the slap-dash way these seem to be put together. Usually, I'm quite the perfectionist, though you can't tell by this. : / A thousand apologies, my friends.


	3. Maestro

**Chapter Three: Maestro**

The opera ghost and my angel of music are one and the same. I am convinced of that beyond a doubt. When maestro – as he bids me call him – praised my swift progress during our last lesson, I hinted of the improbability that I would ever be permitted to sing for the company.

His response was a dark chuckle followed by vague condescension. "You leave that to me. I have acquired a certain… reputation with the manager of this establishment, and when you are ready I will see to it that you have your chance to sing."

If that does not prove my tutor is the presence haunting the opera house, I do not know what will. I thought at first that these were petty games he played, toying with the ballet troupe – nothing worthy of a real schemer. However, I came upon Mme. Giry in secret conference with M. Lefevre only yesterday, whispering with hushed awe about "the opera ghost's salary." He has them paying him a salary! No wonder Mme. Giry knows when to place proper blame on the phantom. She's aware of when he's been paid to leave things be! Both she and our manager obviously live in fear of the maestro and any harm he may cause their plays or their person. I smile as I write this. I thought I was the clever one.

Despite his cleverness, things may not remain so well in hand for the ghost in the long run. Rumors have been circulating for days that M. Lefevre is preparing to retire. Carlotta and her spineless mate Piangi have wagered against each other over whether or not the rumors are true. If they are, and the Populaire is taken over by a new manager, there is no guarantee he will be one who believes in ghosts – not to mention paying them salaries. I wonder what the phantom would do then.

I would not risk his anger.

Maestro can be extremely patient when dealing with the company, but he has a fiendish pleasure in exacting revenge on all who would stand in his way. He does not accept failure in any form; either for himself or his student. He commands my lessons with such a mad drive for perfection that I am quickly shedding this mask of ignorance to learn things truly new and unknown to me before. I only wonder if a time will arise when even _I _cannot match the standard of his vision, so unwaveringly strict he is in all aspects of his tutoring. He tells me what to eat, what to drink, when to lie down and when to rise; I'm astonished by all the ordinary things that he says will either help or hinder my voice. I'm often stifled under the weight of his stipulations.

Still, I cannot complain. His ambitions concerning me are so very near my own that I would be an utter fool to shun his instructions. What is clear to me now is that I can no longer continue the lessons while remaining anonymous. He presses me not only for greatness, but fame as well. Maestro will not be satisfied with talent that shadows itself in obscurity. Altering my intentions is difficult and I shall take care not to grow complacent.

Hard as he is with me, the maestro is doubly hard on himself. I am not one to indulge in a lack of self confidence but I have learned to recognize it in those around me and I can see that he will acknowledge any failure on my part to reflect on him and appear as his own failing. I do not wish to fail him. I fear what destruction he may cause himself.

No. I will not distract myself with the concerns of others. I must learn what I can from him and do whatever is necessary to use him for my own devices. If I cannot achieve greatness through the lessons offered me, I will have failed myself, and no one else.

But that will not happen. I will not allow it.

Later—

How my heart is fluttering and leaping! I can barely hold my pen, my hand shakes so! I have just stolen away after one of the most rigorous lessons I've ever endured. For hours I was made to sing. One moment I held a note too long, a moment later I stopped it short, and time after time the maestro urged me to "Stand straighter!" "Breathe deeper!" or most often, "Do not just read the music, Christine; feel it!"

_Feel the music?_ I wanted to drive a candlestick straight through his elusive person! How can I sing and _not_ feel the music? It is in every sound I hear, in every breathe I take. It flows through my veins and vibrates in my mind. Everything I am has a connection to the seductive, overpowering presence of music. It draws me, it fills me, it feeds me. When I sing, there are no plots or unraveling mysteries; no need to think or act upon a reasoned decision. There is music, and there is nothing else. There have been times in my life when it seemed I could feel nothing _but_ music.

I willed away my rage, drawing it out into the form of a weary sigh which the maestro took as exhaustion. He bid me rest, and after a lapse of silence which stretched on too long, his voice came to me in softer, almost gentle tones.

"Perhaps I am too hard. You progress so quickly and so well, and I can only criticize.

"But don't you see?" he said, growing more impassioned, "I only drive you as I do because I know what you are capable of! When you sing, you can rend the heavens asunder, and set to fire the hearts of men as I never could. I cannot enter the world you inhabit, but I can reach out and touch it through the music I give you. When Paris hears your angelic voice, it will know your angel of music. You are almost ready to make your debut, my child. Soon, they will know of your gift."

So he wishes to reach the world through my voice. That is unfortunate. He may have perfected my talent, but in the end, all they will hear is Christine Daae. At the end of every opera, every performance, every play, the name gracing the lips of each Parisian will be mine. From the priest in the highest bell tower to the lowest street rat scavenging food from the gutter, the one name they will all know is Christine Daae.

Christine Daae will soon have her debut.


	4. Managing Fools

**Chapter Four: Managing Fools**

M. Lefevre walked right into the middle of a rehearsal today, upsetting M. Reyer's delicate composure, two ballet girls, and Piangi's sharp note, merely to confirm the suspicions of his early retirement. He introduced the two nitwits who now own the Populaire; Monsieurs Richard Firmin and Gilles Andre. They procured a fortune from the junk business and are now proud as peacocks to own the famous opera house.

Fools! To think I slave away to sing in the chorus and keep a perfect semblance of meekness while those two… oh! It's unbearable. I cannot fathom it. All because I'm a woman!

Firmin and Andre spent the entirety of the morning running about, disturbing sets and crew members and apologizing profusely. The rest of the day they went poking their noses in things they understand nothing of, and generally acted like imbeciles. They have utter faith in "La Carlotta" and her monkey-like talents, which may seem a reproach our old manager deserved, except his constant complaint of headaches told us he longed for a replacement, as unreasonable as such wishing was. M. Lefevre I pitied. The new managers I scorn.

The glory of this opera house should not be reduced to paltry circus performances. I am beyond slipping into the background of this company now. It makes me sick to my stomach, watching the absurdity that is allowed to go on; indeed, is promoted by those who should be taking figures in the office, not getting underfoot wherever they are not wanted. This cannot go on. I could barely stand one day of it! How shall I go on through months or more? If good direction was their aim, I could accept it with a forced smile and weighed consideration. But their prying is borne of fervor so deep rooted in ignorance that one is not met without the other in their persons.

When the time comes and I am ready to purchase my opera house from the idiots who hold it at the moment, it would benefit me to have the current management in a state of distress. Enough distress to sell the opera to one more suited to take care of it, perhaps. Firmin and Andre know nothing of the phantom yet. I will play my cards carefully and see what may come. According to the sneering tone in his ethereal voice, maestro does not approve of their complete reliance upon La Carlotta. He is learned enough for his ear to distinguish a partiality to my own talents. Perhaps he's forming ideas of sabotage for my benefit. Oh dear… it's almost as if I put ideas in his head myself! When I mentioned that Carlotta's voluminous hair and the ornaments that could be fit therein are her greatest pride beside her voice, could it be that it drew his thoughts to the container of itching powder silly Adeline Grey acquired to play jokes on the other ballet girls?

If that wasn't enough to set things in motion, my phantom is not half as clever as I give him credit for.

* * *

_**The Phantom of the Opera and all of the characters therein do not belong to me. Alas.**_

**Author's Note:**

First, I apologize for the fact that it took me ages to get out this sadly short chapter. In my defense, real life diary entries (at least mine) are rarely consistent in length.

Next, In case you're all wondering whether I'm following the pattern of the book or movie version of this story, the answer is that I'm taking cues from both. I've mostly incorporated storyline from the movie, although I'm putting longer spaces between events than either one. For example, in the movie Lefevre quits the opera, new management is established, Carlotta quits, Christine has her debut, Raoul visits her dressing room, and she's swept into the Phantom's lair all in one night. It might take me a few chapters to go through all of those, and for the sake of story smoothness they won't all be from one sitting of Christine writing in her diary. The movie needs to squash things together to keep the songs coming in proper sequence, but here I don't need to do that.


	5. The Diva's Disasters

**Chapter Five: The Diva's Disasters**

One too many "accidents" have occurred to Mme. Carlotta during the course of her rehearsals, and she has refused to sing her part until the accidents are remedied. What a tragedy! And how difficult it is to write when one is trembling with laughter!

But still! I must be still. If I upset the candle and the rug catches fire, I will never forgive myself. This rug was bought at a very high price for an opera that never played. Someday it shall be seen on stage, bearing the glory of its worth, and scorching now would hardly be advantageous.

To continue with Carlotta's disasters… First, there was the accident which caused heads to be scratched… in quite the literal sense. By what mysterious means were Carlotta's hair implements such an irritation to her enlarged head? Everyone was puzzled by it. The managers had no idea what could have happened. They've been newly made privy to tales of an opera ghost, but don't believe a word of such rumors. Everyone who speaks of the phantom is either mad or superstitious in their minds, or part of an elaborate hoax to be played at their expense. The latter is much closer to the truth, of course, but the general mood to be upheld during phantom complaints is one of solemnity and awe. Anything less in Mme. Giry's presence and you will feel the sting of her rebuke, if not her cane as well.

The next accident occurred during another rehearsal, and although not directly the cause of Carlotta's frustration, the lines of red ink staring out at M. Reyer in place of the opera score gave him such a fright that he was unable to proceed with rehearsals for another half hour. Some of us feared he would suffer a stroke in all the excitement, but fortunately for M. Reyer and his frail heart, the managers found the missing sheets unharmed on their desk as they brought him in for a much needed drink.

The most recent, and I must confess the most brilliant of these recent follies, took place this afternoon during the aria in Act III. Just as La Carlotta filled her lungs to sing the high note, a full backdrop fell onto her costume's bustle, dragging the fat sow down to the floor. Carlotta shrieked and whined like a tortured rat while two long fingers belonging to our stupid managers pointed at Bouquet for allowing such a thing to happen at his post. The rest of the fingers stayed wisely tucked away, for no one knows how to point to a ghost.

As a result of this final fiasco, I was forced to sing—amidst much protestation as being too young and untrained—for the new managers, and am now set to sing the lead in the next opera. The fool managers were mildly shocked to _discover_ my voice, but Mme. Giry told them stories of my mysterious tutoring, which in the end afforded them little interest. They did not care how I came to sing, so long as the opera was able to go on and the seats could still be sold. So then, how much does Mme. Giry know of my opera ghost, I wonder? I cannot ask too clearly, else she becomes suspicious of my inducements. I will seek for opportunity to drop seemingly harmless questions in her company. Perhaps her reaction to wild assumptions will tell me more of this phantom who is called maestro.

Maestro spoke incessantly of triumph and glory this evening, but my heart was not in the lesson. I did my best to please him, but he is concerned I will not have it in me to fully astonish the house tomorrow night. I begin to feel that in disappointing him I will disappoint myself. I have struggled vainly against such emotions, but decided after all that I've been too easy in my own expectations. Why not revel in the splendor of my singing accomplishments before claiming what should be mine? As long as the company believes my success to be borrowed from another, they will not suspect my secret plans. No one would believe that simple Christine, who believes in her dead father's spirit and cannot sing a note without supernatural guidance has the capacity to take over the Opera Populaire. Oh, this scheming is too delicious! I must gain some sleep now to prepare me for tomorrow.

* * *

**_Phantom of the Opera, the book, the film versions, and the characters I've screwed up do not belong to me._**

**Notes:** (You know, like the song, but not.) Yes, another short one today, but don't be sad, for I am currently working on a much longer chapter involving Christine's debut, and the entrance of a certain victome. ;) So patience, my dears, and all will be revealed--or twisted--in time.


	6. The New Prima Donna

**Chapter Six: The New Prima Donna**

How will I ever put down all that has happened to me this night? I must write while all is fresh in my memory. I will never forgive myself if anything vital is forgotten. It has all happened so quickly! Let me try to make sense of it...

Preparations went by in a blur. Scarcely had it seemed that any time passed since I received a final word of advice from the maestro than I stood before the dressing room mirror, clad in white and silver, dripping jewels from my tightly curled hair and exquisite gown. Smoothing down the magnificent fabric, feeling it caress my hands like rivulets of water gave me chills of excitement, and I was thankful that it was _I _in the gown and not the person whose name shall not mar my triumph by being mentioned at all tonight.

I walked out onto the stage when the cue was given. The house was full, and the crowd sat with bated breath, half hating me already for not being my rival, knowing naught of the melody about to romance them. The great chandelier threw beams of light onto the surfaces of the gems I wore, casting starry rainbows wherever there were jewels to reflect them. I had to hold back a smile, thinking of how astounded they all would be to hear such a voice from a chorus girl of insignificant origin. And they were astounded.

When the audience cheered and threw flowers at my feet, I felt at once that all was as it should be. How I have missed the crowd of listeners from days long past when father and I sang sonnets by the sea. It is not so much the adoring followers that _some _collect like hair ribbons which I desire, but the throng of individuals, each compelled to _feel _because of my voice. To know that even so much of your soul has been accepted by hundreds is truly a gift worth treasuring. I sang tonight to entrance; to capture, to impassion, and delight. They were thrown into fevers of wild despair, lifted up to heights of euphoria, and lulled to blissful peace, all with the rise and fall of my song and all the while I knew he was with me. He wasn't like a tangible presence, or even a definable thought, but like a distant memory which prompts your most significant actions whether or not you know it, he was there. Almost as if he was the music, and I was not singing except through him. It aroused me to anger. I had finally come to realize my triumph, and his spirit was there to divide the glory betwixt us. The better I sang, the more his presence could be felt. He was aiding me. I cannot explain how, but my voice—however like my own it sounded—_was not mine._ I remembered his words about Paris hearing his music through me, and it only increased my frustration.

I needed to gain control. Singing would only bring us closer, and so I did the one thing that would sever his hold. In my distress, I stopped singing. As I reached the climax and my voice… his voice… our voice reached the point which nothing mortal can describe and therefore I will not attempt to, I feigned a swoon. It was perfect. Anyone would have thought me passed out from exhaustion, or those with closer knowledge and wilder imaginations, possessed by a merciless angel of music.

The doctor revived me with some obnoxious perfumes and I awoke to see a sweet boyish face leaning over me in an expression not of worry or of care, but something between. I believe the emotion of concern falls under that category. And yet, there was a fire in his eyes that I rather liked. Passionate men are more susceptible to beguiling. The more fevered the brain, the less guarded the heart. Seeing him stirred memories stored somewhere in the far corners of my mind, but my thoughts were bent on my angel, and in a momentary loss of self possession, I feared he was really just a spirit and my act tonight had banished me from his presence forever.

Impatiently, I cast the young man aside. He said something about rescuing a scarf from the ocean. In my distracted state, I hadn't time to suppress my laughter. How am I to remember the face of every young man whose fallen prey to the trick of the scarf? When his name and station were clarified, I spoke much kindlier—Raoul de Chagny! The _Vicomte_ Raoul de Chagny!—but knowing how maestro is always aware of scenes supposed to be private, I fought back my eagerness to have the boy besotted at once.

Though I tell myself I held back my eagerness as a precaution against the maestro's indignation, I cannot believe I did not jump at the chance to reacquaint myself with the vicomte! Especially when he assumes such familiarity already! Now I will have to take care that my proceeding actions do not appear fickle. What good fortune that he should become patron of my opera! A man of title and wealth could benefit me greatly in the long run. Once secure in my grasp, he could be the tool I use in claiming what I desire. If I cannot buy the Populaire myself, I will own it in all but name. This would call for a much riskier, much longer charade, but I have every confidence that the Viscount is susceptible to the easy compliance brought on by properly administered feminine wiles. I have hastened to send a letter of apology after him, excusing my behavior as prompted by fear of the angel. Odd that his title should be such. We none of us are angels in this dishonest business.

Awaiting the boy's reply and knowing it is too late to expect it tonight, I am left to ponder the reception of my missive. I believe his interest in me should be enough not to push him away for the sake of one little mistake. I hope I have not banished two prospects in one night. I am slightly fearful of what the next few days will bring.

Maestro was angry over the incident as I had first feared. It was difficult not to smile at his jealousy. It was not the jealousy of a god or angel, but the obvious resentment of a physical man. It was all too apparent in his irrational behavior and turn of phrase this evening which is normally so precise and eloquent. He was more man tonight than I have ever heard him. Which nature of his: man or phantom, outweighs the other in ease of turning? Or is he equally immoveable in both? No, I cannot imagine it is so. Men are touchable, pliable, emotional. Spirits hover above the sphere of mortals, concerned with intangible things such as love and mercy and music. Maestro the man may be useful. Maestro the spirit must wane.

* * *

_**Note:** I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny (darn!) or anything that marveious man Gaston Leroux wrote. I do, however, own the idea for evil Christine (can't say it's **only** my idea since I'm sure I'm not the first person to discover that Christine is EVIL!) and this specific twisting of the characters and story sequence. So give credit where it is due. And leave a review, if you can. ;)_


	7. Concerning the Viscount

**Chapter Seven: Concerning the Viscount**

I have taken a holiday. That is to say, in order to keep up appearances in accordance with the fainting fit I had on stage I've withdrawn from the public eye. I've had several offers to sing at various events and charities but accepting any of them so soon after the incident would make it seem I am perfectly well and the untimely swoon would be hardly worth a mention. The mystery of my suddenly developed stage fright aides the spread of ghostly rumors. The managers mustn't be persuaded they are safe from the phantom. They are far too quickly distracted into ease. Questions therefore abound regarding my absence. Why does Christine not continue in her triumph? Is it modesty? Is it fear? If it is fear, what is Christine afraid of? Was she really possessed by a spirit? Is Christine hiding away for the sake of pride, humiliated by her public display of weakness? Truthfully, I have never really fainted in my life. Feigning a swoon has served me well on several occasions so I keep in practice. And everyone thinks Carlotta is the star actress.

As for my attempts to gather maestro's history from Mme. Giry, I do not get on at all. She evades any prompts to open the subject, and I have already seen how blatant questions are scolded away when the unfortunate ballet corp has asked them. I could ask her outright, but that would raise questions of her own. I don't intend to incite Mme. Giry's suspicious nose poking around in my business. I may sound vexed with her, but it is only over this matter. I do not like her knowing things that are a secret to me. It makes me feel I have a point of vulnerability. I must know who the maestro is to better comprehend where I stand with him. When will I start receiving some answers? This entire mystery is just too much.

One person who holds no distressing mystery is Raoul. He has been a frequent presence at the opera and continually strives to renew whatever friendship was begun all those years ago when we were children. He remembers things I had forgotten, such as the names of games we used to play and the color of the hair ribbon I tied round a tree to mark a fairy nest. He recalls another time we met; both of us had barely passed from childhood to youth, and Raoul had come to call on Daddy and me at the house in Perros. We behaved quite shyly to one another and Raoul went away feeling unhappy at the prospect of never seeing us again. That scene I do remember, even if it required his retelling of the story to bring it back to my mind. There must always be a delicate balance maintained during any conversation I have with the Viscount. When I tell him I do not remember this day or that time spent with him, I know from the sulky expression displayed that it hurts him deeply, but when I reminisce with clarity and bring him happiness, the maestro grows angry and snappish. This evening he did not even compliment my easy access of the higher register, and I presume it is only because I allowed Raoul to go walking with me in the park.

Many girls at the opera house have rich and titled men supporting their careers with financial favors in return for sharing their bed. I would never stoop to such a thing, but I cannot stop myself from wondering if that is what Raoul expects. Of course I do not need his help in procuring fame or fortune. I can gather admirers without purchasing them. It is his title alone that is of interest, and combining our assets would be no small gain to me either. The only way to accomplish both would be through marriage. Socially that is not an acceptable arrangement, I know, for an obscure opera girl to marry a viscount. And now that I have begun to live so poorly, owning to my real situation would create a scandal; the very last thing I wish to have on my hands while reeling in a titled admirer. To persuade him to fall in love with me to the extent that he will not care for public opinion regarding the match will call for a great deal of charm and care. It will not do to behave like the other _putains_ who throw themselves at powerful men only to rise superficially and fall just as quickly. Their benefactors grow tired of them soon enough, and tire of me Raoul must not. I shall be the sweet angel he wants for himself. I can be as meek and demure as a nun, alluring as a geisha from the orient, make him feel the need to protect me and prove his manhood; I can and I will make him love me.

I have thought of what could be if I do entice the viscount into matrimony. We will start life as a married couple with him in complete ignorance of my riches and designs for the opera. I will wait a month or so and with the help of M. Lamont, devise a story sufficiently explaining my sudden rise to wealth. Perhaps "an old family friend passed on and left their money to me before I became the wife of a viscount, but only now has the written will been discovered." Then will begin my hinting towards all the advantages of owning an opera house and I will speak longingly of The Populaire. If he does not comply under my urging, I can plague his heart out until he does, though I cannot think that will be necessary. Raoul seems too willing to please me already. I wonder if men realize what easy targets they make. The male species may think dominion is theirs, but for every man in charge there is a woman already two steps ahead of him.

Raoul asked me in detail what happened to me on stage. He asked how I could sing with such perfection and skill when only a month previous I barely sang as well as the other girls. Apparently he's been attending the opera without coming to see me, but his concern over my fainting forced him to start our acquaintance afresh. I told him the story of my angel of music and he laughed. Not an utter fool, then. It is not so important that he believes in the angel, but that he believes I do. I will take all of the maestro's jealous tantrums and controlling ways and exaggerate them tenfold. If I have learned anything of Raoul these past weeks, I know he will consider it his duty to save me from harm. The dangerous man of mystery who frightens poor Christine is the perfect way to gain intrigue. Raoul isn't likely to give me up if my alternative fate includes living alone, forever haunted by a frightening spirit.

_The Countess de Chagny_ has an elegant ring to it.

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I own naught of the original _Phantom of the Opera_, its characters, its story, or its musical.

_Putains_ = whores (Pardon Christine's French.)

AH! It totally slipped my mind when I first uploaded this, so I don't know how many of you will actually see my late notes, but I now have a **poll** **on my homepage** for you to vote on concerning the ultimate end of this story. So feel the power. ;) Every vote matters and all that rot. I do have an idea of where I _think_ I'd like to go with it, but your thoughts are always welcome. :)


	8. Erik

**NEW A/N:** Sorry guys; I know it's weird for me to put a note at the beginning, but it's only fair to explain that this is a heavily edited chapter... in other words, _recycled_. *cries* I'm so sorry. I really am working on Chapter Ten, but perfectionist that I am, I refused to focus on it until the deficiencies in eight and nine were taken care of. These are much better now. At least, I think they are. Hang in there; we'll get to ten soon!

I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_, the book, the films, or the musical. I think it's important for me to make that clear because I'm relying very heavily on Leroux's text at this point. So yeah. He's the man. He wrote it first. I love him for it. I don't own it myself. But I do own Evil!Christine. Mad woman that she is.

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**Chapter Eight: Erik**

I have been there. I have been to hell and back and live to write of it. I do not even dare write this narrative in the dormitory for fear of him seeing me and finding all that's written here. What danger I'd be in! What new misery would be invented for me by that tender, threatening hand? I've snuck out to the stables with my writing things, and though it is dim with one lantern and smells awfully of beasts, it is far better than being caught with the secrets I now relate.

The tension between my tutor and would-be-sweetheart reached a tangible limit, duly snapped, and reaped terrible consequences. Maestro said I was neglecting my lessons over "that boy," and he was very displeased with me. He grew paranoid and said I was planning on leaving him, abandoning my music to live with the viscount as his wife—a lady of leisure rather than music. I denied such ridiculous charges. He struck back with protestations against earthly distractions. He claimed he could not teach me if I were to marry, as angels only visit the purest of creatures. Ignoring his obstinate continuation of the angel's persona, I asked him what he wanted; how I could please him. I could not have him leave me. My lessons are not finished and the managers are finally asking to have me back in the public eye. Maestro's hold on them cannot cease, now of all times.

He said I must promise never to marry, that on the day I do he will be gone from me forever. Yet, I would be rewarded with unfathomable happiness if I made a vow of celibacy there and then. Until that moment I had no idea just how desperately jealous he'd become of Raoul. I should have worked harder to appease maestro, keeping the boy at a tantalizing distance. At least now I am aware of how carefully I must tread this path.

Without shame I made my promise. Vows forced under duress cannot be kept sacred in the eyes of God. The menace in that fantastic voice left me with little other choice. When I'd made it, the alteration in his mood was acute. I cannot express with my own words what relief showed in the inflections of his voice; how often afterwards he reiterated that I was a treasure from the gods and had made him very happy.

My reward was a journey to the angel's throne. We did not ascend into heaven, but rather we traveled below ground under the deepest dankest caverns concealed within the opera house. He brought me through the dressing room mirror in a whirl of theatrics so mystifying that I could not make sense of how I went from being on one side of the glass to the other. He led me through the secret tunnels, deeper and deeper below. I now know that all the trapdoors scattered about the Populaire go to these secret places, even if I do not know where each of them could take one and where they all end. Had I been alone, I would have been lost in an endless maze of twisting passages and wrong turns. The significance of this is that I was completely at his mercy. He could have done anything to me then. He could have left me there to find my way back or die if it suited him. But he did not.

That night maestro was revealed to me. My long held belief that he was flesh and blood was at last confirmed. So much of him was covered as he stepped through the trick mirror and pulled me in after him that even in such close proximity I doubted the humanity of him at first. Shrouded in black from cloak to cuff like a pall bearer of morbid dignity, he treaded noiselessly as a feral cat. A full mask hid all his face excluding unnatural yellow eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness, thin lips of incredible expression, and a heavily powdered chin.

I opened my mouth to speak. A spindly hand clamped over it, the owner anticipating a scream of terror. His hand against my lips was cold and smelt of decay. We had been walking some time when the darkness grew too thick for me to see into. A lighter shape was discernable near my shoulder and hot breath blew against my neck. I hesitated and the maestro picked me up as if I weighed no more than an empty gown, depositing me on the back of our theatre horse, Cesar, whose disappearance from the stables was obviously not from the beast wandering off of his own accord. I wondered then if I was a prisoner—if fate would have me locked underground for an eternity of darkness. I clung desperately to the hope of music. Terrifying as the night had become, my music teacher would not subject me to a life without song. There were places below in which the commonplace noises of nightly activities carried through to our ears, made more sensitive by lack of vision. Surely the same secret areas could be used to hear performances. Surely the maestro would want me to hear and to make music as long as I drew breath. I could live—if forced—without sunlight or dry air, but without music life was but a hollow shell, too fragile to hold me for long.

More time passed as we spiraled downward, turning and turning in the gloom. I cannot say how long my journey in the dark was, but it was no short trek. I caught a breath of changing odor in the air. A dampness settled in as black gave way to bluish light and the bank of a lake was made visible. He helped me off Cesar and carefully lowered me into the boat, secured to shore with an iron ring. As he climbed in with me, he kept an arm fastened possessively around my middle. Out from his cloak he drew a damp cloth. I wondered first if it was bathed in something to prevent me from fainting, but as he raised it towards my nostrils they caught a pungent smell and it occurred to me that he intended on forcing me into a swoon.

Terror overcame me. I had no intention of being dragged anywhere without my senses at full disposal. A struggle took place in which I emerged the victor, if only momentarily as he sent Cesar off and began rowing at a violent pace toward the opposite end of the shore. We drove into a light, which after the darkness had me blinded even in its subtle state. I was taken in the phantom's arms again and by the cues of my physical protestations he finally set me down in the middle of what could be nothing else but a drawing-room. There was certainly nothing unearthly about the tangible items used to furnish the room. The couch, the cushions, the candles, the chair, the vases and the flowers within; they all were vaguely familiar. As if I'd seen them in a shop window while walking or… or taken off a set. Yes, now I'm almost sure that one of the draperies was cast aside as being too dark in color for the springtime scene it was ordered for. It's a beautiful panel and I remember thinking it wasteful not to find a use for it. Now it hangs over a square object on the phantom's wall. I assumed it must be a portrait he no longer wished to look at.

The ghostly aura had mostly evaporated with the revelation of his house, and the human qualities of the little drawing-room were nettling. They only served to remind me that Maestro is a man and not the powerful specter he pretends to be.

_Maestro is man… _

What my own mind repeats!

I was about to demand to know what the meaning of his display was, but I thought again and did not shatter the thin ice I had been thrown upon. If Maestro had resorted to kidnapping, I was not at all certain of what else he was capable of.

"Don't be afraid, Christine. You are in no danger." His voice was far gentler than I'd expected. It carried no command, but rather a sigh. Why wasn't he severe and commanding as before?

I did not say aloud that perhaps he was the one in danger. How this thought came to me, I do not know. Nor do I understand the sudden urge I felt to tear off his mask and reveal him as a fraud. I only know that I was all at once exhausted by the lies and trickery. It is wearying to keep a secret from one's self. I've known since the beginning that he is not an angel, a ghost, or a saint, but a man with all the according passions and jealousies. Having him declare so much in his new tone and demeanor made me livid. This fantastic, dramatic display to tell me what I was already aware of was ridiculous. Could he not stay constant in his deception? Rather that than a compromise of reputation. Did he seek to build trust from his revelation? I would not bend.

Unthinking, I rushed him at once, reaching wildly for his mask. Strong hands met my wrists, turning them away with such a vice that struggling was painful. "You are in no danger, so long as you do not touch the mask." The music in his voice became a broken sonata; hardly dangerous though it strove to be so again.

The mystery of the mask prompted curiosity. Why was I not to know him? Was he an old lover on a mission of revenge? What was so terrifying about his person that I was not allowed to see anything but the slightest trickery of a form? How important could the secret of one man's identity be, and why would the knowledge of it put me in danger? I burned to discover the answers.

"Who are you?" I dared him to make a fool of us. Instead, he struck me with the honesty in his response.

"I am Erik." Not an angel, not a devil, not a phantom. A man named Erik.

"And this is where you live?"

"When you sing I live in the heavens, and when you do not, down below."

"Show me your face."

"No… No, Christine. Any woman who sees my face must remain down here always, with me. I have plans for you, dear child, and they do not include a life of perpetual darkness."

Thus saying, he seated me in a chair and knelt at my feet. Imploring, humble, sorrowful, he offered an apology.

"You will forgive Erik for his mask and trickery…" He choked on his emotion, "Dearest Christine, I have done it all for you!"

I was in shock. I couldn't move.

He wept like a babe and begged that I might understand him, that I forgive him for snatching me away, as he did it only for love. I could not bear it. The man I'd come to see as untouchable and brimming with power was kneeling at my feet, wretched and vulnerable. Under other circumstances this may have heartened me. As it was, this new admission wrung tears of anger from my eyes. He was weak. Weak like all the others.

_Erik is a man… _

I stared at his stooping posture as the tears ran their course down my flushed cheeks. I hated him. I was betrayed in the cruelest way. This was no power. This _man_ was pitiful, and he went to no trouble to hide his weakness.

Have I not said myself that it is only his human state that will allow me to rule him? And yet, his casting off the farce has disturbed me so. It is not that he is a man that haunts me. It is how little he now tries to pretend otherwise; how broken he is in his human form. A mere man cannot control an opera company, but a specter cannot be turned to act on my wants. I need them to exist as one. Groveling will not do.

He mistook my tears for shame over his humanity and repeated his regret once again, as if I were a little girl being told for the first time that my dolls could not hear my whispered secrets. He may have continued all night in that fashion had I not intervened for my own sake.

So overcome with a desire to be left alone, so weary of seeing him downcast and pleading, I made use of my emotional state and pretended to faint again.


	9. Strange Duet

**A/N**: Read this because it's new. Mostly new. I mean, a lot of it is not what once was. *disappears ominously*

_Phantom of the Opera_ is not mine. Fluffeh!Raoul is, though. He hangs out in my closet and steam presses my gowns for me. Be jealous. No, Fluffeh!Raoul isn't in this chapter. Sorry.

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**Chapter Nine: Strange Duet**

I was set down softly as a sleeping babe in a bed that touched my bare arms in a brush of silks and velvet. I remained motionless, keeping my breath at a steady pace, waiting for his next move. He began to sing a Swedish lullaby, something I had not heard since I was a girl, and never before as I heard then. The song was meant for children, but the pleasure his baritone excited in me was hardly childlike or innocent. The rich rumble of each syllable, the melodic caresses of a long forgotten refrain, the rise and fall of vibrato, all created visions of the voice's origin as that of a debonair, undoubtedly handsome man. Whatever lay beneath his mask did not matter so long as he sang. It became a struggle for me to maintain a rhythmic breathing when he, still singing, stooped down and removed first my slippers and then my stockings.

His hands were frozen spindles against my leg. I would have thought them devoid of flesh but for the remarkable softness running down my skin as the stocking slipped off in his hands; through this I realized he had cast his gloves aside before my shoes were taken from me. I stiffened so as not to shiver. I almost forgot to continue breathing as the last note of the lullaby wavered to an undesired end. My legs lay naked from the knee downward and Erik's hands stayed still where they were.

There was no sound to determine he had gone, but all at once I was covered with a light blanket and a presence was absent from the room. His hands had been replaced with the blanket so deftly that not even a telltale breeze preceded the change to alert me of it. I opened my eyes as much as I dared, just two cracks between the obstacles of my lashes. The shadow of his slender, yet imposing form appeared in the doorway, blocking most of the candlelight from the drawing-room. His arm reached out to place something noiselessly on the set of drawers near the door. When he withdrew again, I waited until I thought I must be alone and slowly rose to inspect his missive and the room I'd been left in.

The note was crudely penned in red ink as from one who is not overly fond of forming letters. Although hastily scribbled it was not lacking at all in thoughtfulness. Through the note he explained he had gone out to bring back some things I would have need of and at present I was alone in "this home which is yours."Now that the uncomfortable journey to his kingdom had passed and a more rational frame of mine had returned to me, I could see that he was indeed trying to reward me for my dishonest vow. The phrasing he used set my mind spinning, however. How long was he intending on keeping me below? I thought it best not to dwell on it and instead braced for the role I was set to play.

As for the room, it was a cozily furnished bedroom graced with an old but charming elegance. Perhaps a bit gloomy in decorative style and mismatched with all its oddities but set well and with all the standards and trifles one could want in a room. The only door leading anywhere that I could discover brought me into a bathroom prepared equally satisfying to the benefits of one's personal comfort.

I was surprised to have missed any indication of an exit through my search. Why, Erik had left by way of an opening not an hour previous! I moved my hands along the wall which had once been allowed to admit us both with results that did anything but satisfy. There was nothing that implied the existence of a door, an exit, a way out. Now that I knew I was trapped, I grew angry at Erik once again. His note, so clear to insist that his house was mine was in derision of my situation. All my alertness had been for nothing. It did not matter what I could see or hear or sense in a house where nothing was as it seemed.

On his return, I let my countenance show my displeasure. Ignoring the parcels he placed on the bed and their significance regarding his intentions, I upbraided him for his mistreatment of me, begged to know if I was now a prisoner. He was hurt by my accusatory language and said that the door had been locked for my own protection.

"It would not be safe for you to wander about the underground without assistance." There was a threat implied that I did not care for. I took comfort, however, in his returned composure.

"Now that you are awake, my dear, you must eat something. After a little lunch I will show you the rest of this curious dungeon I've made my home."

My curiosity being piqued, I accepted his invitation and he offered me his arm like any well-bred gentleman.

Lunch was a perfectly normal affair but for the setting and company. We dined by the green lake, on chicken and wine—or rather, I dined, as Erik ate nothing and focused on attending me. He showed me more rooms with trick doors and levers, each one more eccentric and lavish than the previous. He lives more splendidly than many people above ground, and if I were to take my father's fortune and prepare myself a house, I could hardly do better than Erik has there. It lacks only sunlight, as none seems to find its way so far down, and an audience for the numerous concerts that are played on the instrument in his home, never heard by anyone except the sewer rats, and now Christine.

He brought me to a strange room: black, black, black along the walls with pieces of music its only decorative relief, explained as his chamber, and pointing under heavy curtains of red brocade, Erik showed me the coffin he slept in.

As I stared at the coffin inlaid with black silk and listened to him drone about the inevitability of death, all at once the mystery of the situation prompted another extraordinary reaction. I determined quite resolutely that whatever it took, before I was separated from Erik that night, I would see his face; I would remove the mask of the man who so looked and lived and felt like death. By the end of the evening I would know something of the man who was Erik.

We sang a duet as he played the organ in his room. As before, when I was on stage, his voice in my head threatened to overpower me, to possess and control what by all rights was mine. The worst of it was I could not ascertain whether singing with such passion was playing into his hands or fulfilling my own need. I loathed admitting to myself how little I had felt from singing before. Before, I had been the one in control of the music, but now the music was claiming _me,_ making me a victim to emotions I could not push back. Theatrical expression was no longer a mask as the music invaded the core of me, opening the depths of my soul in way unknown and terrifying. The intensity of my rage at his intrusions made me bold. With Erik so absorbed in the genius of his music, I had opportunity to catch him off guard. At the rise of the crescendo, when the outcry of pounding keys and soaring voice threatened to break the very fabric of our beings, I tore the offending leather away from his face.

He spun about as if I'd struck him, full of hatred, fear, and fury. His cry was like that of a strangled animal. I will never forget it as long as I live.

He screamed and raged, he swore. He forced my head so that I could not turn away and sobbed bitterly. For seeing his face, he explained, I was now bound to stay there in that tomb for all eternity. He cursed feminine curiosity, again misunderstanding the truth of my motives.

I was horrified at the discovery. Not by the ghastly eyes so predatory and cold, the hollow gape of a nose, or the sunken deathly features that swathed the bones in mock pretenses of skin. No, my horror was over the grip of feelings attacking me without reason for the sake this man and his unfortunate deformity. Pity. Understanding. Compassion. I could not recall the last time I had felt such things, nor anytime I had felt them altogether, but these were all incited by a face which looked like death itself, staring me in the eyes with the orbs of a devil.

I cast my feelings aside, recognizing I could not afford to complicate matters with my sympathy. But from where had these thoughts unduly arisen?

Like me, Erik has been tossed the meanest bone society deemed just to throw him, and he has risen above it to command an entire opera house through ingenuity and craft. I am put down for the sake of my sex, he for the tragedy of an inhuman physical appearance. For the length of a sigh I did not want to own the Populaire if it meant taking it from Erik. For the brief moment it took for me to inhale, we had everything in common. We were equals in our sorrows, situation, and aspirations. Outcasts of society, both daring to look tradition in the eye and spit.

My weakness was soon overcome and my dreadful feelings repressed. What is he but a man who has used me and lied to me and then at the last proven himself to be nothing? He is just like every other male creature inhabiting this wretched world, forever underestimating, undervaluing the woman. He would never trust me with his secrets though he expects me to share mine; proven time and time again by the mysterious lessons we've shared. Although withdrawn from it, he is part of the same corrupt culture that allows men rampant fornication while a woman is outcast for inappropriate conduct towards anyone who is not her husband. Perhaps it is unfair of me to class him with those who have so grossly injured him; it is clear why he wears a mask and dwells in a gilded cavern, but I cannot acquit him of the crime of his gender. And I _will not_ forgive him for the feelings he draws from me like an untrained bow drawing music from a violin. It is cruel, too cruel of him to appear so capable at the start and yet conceal such fragility. Is such a man even worthy of being used if he loses control so easily?

He raked my nails across his face as I gaped at him, wrestling against my emotions. "Feast your eyes upon my ugliness!" Gone was the gentleman who had escorted me to lunch. I have compared him to a child and I will do so once more. If Erik does not get his way, he becomes infantile, having his fit and making a spectacle of himself. Nothing is more human.

I tried to look away, but he would not let me. "Look at me Christine! Are you satisfied? You will never leave me now! As long as you thought me handsome, you could have come back and willingly, but now that you know the hideous monster I am, you would run away for good. So I shall keep you here! Why did you want to see me? Foolish Christine! When my own father never saw me and when my mother, so intent not to see her wretched child's face, made me a present of my first mask!"

He then flung me away and retreated into his room to nurse his tortured pride with music. It was entirely unlike anything I had heard up until then. It began as long, somber notes, like a sigh that turns presently to weeping. But as it went on, little by little, it evolved into an expression of every terrible emotion we had each felt that night. It was gentle and heartbreaking, then magnificent and angry, and all at once the most striking blend of sounds that ever met my ears. I knew Erik composed, but to know a thing and to hear it confirmed in such a way is quite different.

I was struck dumb by it; rooted fast to the spot. I could not move for fear of breaking the beautiful, awful spell he had created. At the end of his first exhibition as the last notes faded away into quiet and before he could start another I took my chance to flee into the bedroom. I'd been standing alone for some time and my legs were stiff from it. Once cloistered in moderate safety, I crawled into bed and stopped up my ears. Erik's music was a threat to my reason. I wanted to hear no more of it that night.

As my arms grew weary of their defensive position and I grew too warm under the pillow, I was forced to hear it again. I listened hour after hour as the most wonderful music was played in the room across from me. I cursed it. I blessed it. I never want to hear it again, and yet I long to! So dearly that I feel my heart may break if I do not hear it again—and soon.

Lying on the bed with ears ringing and heart pounding, I resolved this would change nothing. I will still use Erik as a way to my prize. He is dangerous and willful, but he will not break my resolve. I renewed my promise to never trust a man, nor let one so much as catch a glimpse of what lay in my heart.


	10. Measures of Men

**A/N: **I think I'll start putting my notes here, to force you all to read them before you get to the good stuff.

_*mini-cackle*_

Would it do any good to apologize? Maybe I'll jump right to the excuses.

This chapter was difficult. I'm so bipolar about how I feel towards Christine and when I'm feeling like she's an adorable lost puppy type person, I have trouble writing her plotting. This was one of those times.

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**Chapter Ten: Measures of Men**

As my position suggests, Erik did let me go, but not before my talents as an actress were pushed to their limit.

After a barrage of unbridled emotions harassed me through a concert that lasted no less than three hours, Erik's room at last grew quiet. While he had been assaulting my ears with beautiful malice, I'd come to a decision about how I would deal with him. He wanted to be accepted; more than that, he wanted to be adored. I determined to give him exactly what he desired until he could be coaxed into a better frame of mind for releasing me.

For three days he kept me there under close supervision and I was held a comfortable prisoner of the underground. Apart from incessant music lessons, it was rather like a holiday. That is to say, were it not for the mandatory lessons and the importance of my feigning contentment, it would have been restful.

But my mind was uneasy and I could not rest. Up above—here in my world of polite masks and practiced steps, I am in control. I know just how to proceed to bring about a desired result. Down underground, Erik is master. My footing is unsure and I cannot always know how Erik will react to something I think best to say or do. He often sighs and grows angry if he thinks I am too naïve, or twists his sleeves in consternation before asking anything of me—as if he has no right to petition. Spending three days with him has taught me more of his quirks, his needs, but he is still a mystery. Now at least I am not entirely blind to what moves him. Unwittingly, he had granted me the perfect opportunity to learn how best to turn him to my wishes, and I used that opportunity to the utmost. It was no time for complacency.

I used pretty words. I swore with innocent eyes that if I had trembled it was only at his genius and not in fear. I pretended complete acceptance of his unearthly visage, though the thought of what lay under his mask still chills me to the soul. Would to God that I never saw that wretched face—that I never be made to see it again as long as I live!

Erik must be more desperate for compassion than I had thought, for it was easy to make him believe me. I imagined more tears and fits would be required and that my mental state would be affected far more than it was. Perhaps this is why he finds such fault in my singing. It is not technique that I lack, but an ability to truly empathise with another being's actions. When I take on a role, it is merely that; a role. I have played Marguerite, but I have never _been _Marguerite.

I wonder… is this what he tries so earnestly to teach me?

At last my captor let me go, charging me to return to him—return to my poor Erik.

I wish that I could refuse! But I fear that is impossible.

_-Later-_

This day has been atrocious. I hardly slept last night. The quiet of the dormitory is strange to me now. I am unused to lying awake while the other girls sleep on. I am grateful they were not awakened by my return but after Erik's nightly music the hush of the room is maddening. My sleep deprivation made my nerves delicate and my eyes sensitive to light. The chatter of the ballet corps provokes me into an irritable state, and the circumstance of my disappearance does nothing to stay their questions. Meg Giry looked several times as though she would have liked to take me aside and question me, but I did not give her the chance. I am surprised her mama did not remark at all on my absence of the past few days as we practiced our steps.

I felt clumsy the entire rehearsal and did not dally afterward to overhear any gossip.

The reappearance of the Victome only provoked my short temper. Of course I could not let this show.

He invited me to luncheon at the Opera café, and as it was one of many successive pleas to get me in his company, Erik allowed it with rigid stipulations. I was not to give the boy "false hope." I was not to stay past an hour. I was _not _to miss my music lesson. Nor was I to have cream or sugar in my tea, for which condition I was the most disappointed. One gives up many pleasures to become proficient in their art, though how sacrificing my sweets would help me gain the opera house, I could not contrive. It is all for the perversity of singing lessons.

I daresay I have given more of myself to Erik's music than ever to a person.

When pleasantries were gotten over, and several pastries missing from the plates, Raoul broached the awful subject and asked about my absence.

"I cannot speak of it. If you knew how frightened I am…"I had let my shawl slip and the cool wind produced a shiver.

"Dear Christine," he said with tenderness, "let me help you."

"I dare not betray him."

"Who?"

"The one who inspires my voice—my angel."

His frown faded some. "You're not still frightened of a fairy tale, are you?"

"Not here. It's not safe to talk here. He may be listening at this very moment." That was true enough. Erik has no scruples against spying on anyone he takes an interest in—and he takes an inordinate interest in _my_ affairs.

Raoul laid a hand upon my glove and I saw something in his features that I am grown unfamiliar with. As our eyes met I saw in his lovely blue such earnest concern that surprised me.

"Won't you let me help you, Lotte? I hate to see you so frightened of anything."

"I have stayed too long."I hastily removed my hand from under his. "We will talk soon. I cannot say when or where just yet, but be ready for my note. Until requested, please do not try to meet with me. _He_ would not like it." There was the touch of danger to further excite his persistence.

As I hurried back to the Populaire, a shadow fell in step behind me. So, the maestro was indeed listening all the while. Very well. It is good to keep him jealous. Jealously distracts a man from thinking with a clear head and Erik is ever swayed by his passions.

_-Later-_

Despite my warnings, Raoul does not desist in his attentions. He is quite decided that the phantom does not exist, expect in my mind as an exaggerated fancy. I cannot say if this makes him less a fool or more.

In one thing I have greatly misunderstood him. I mistook his interest as echoes of the other nobles who make playthings of the ballet girls. It is not so with Raoul. He is attentive, kind, foolhardy in his wish to protect me, but honest concerning his feelings for me. In fact, I do believe he truly loves me. He speaks of marriage as if synonymous with my name, and seems always to want me near him.

Because of the Victomte's continued friendship, maestro has withdrawn his guiding spirit in a manner of revenge. I thought it a childish fit he would soon be over, but as the date of our opera grows nearer and nearer with no sign of his return, I am concerned. Now that I have known the glories of what his coaching can produce, I will not suffer an amateur performance. I am quite proficient relying on my own talent, but I confess a desire to sing with the fervor he alone inspires. It is puzzling that he would strive for this moment only to abandon me at its realization.

I will confess something else, now. I am frightened of him. Erik frightens me because he is the only man I can imagine holding any sway over my actions. Even—no, _especially_ his absence pulls every nerve taut.

The simplest solution would be acquiescence to his petty whims in banishing Raoul for good. But I find that impossible as well, and not only because the Vicomte is the surest way to procuring my opera house.

Perhaps I am not discouraging of the Victomte's overtures for his simple and honest company keeps my plots of ownership forefront in my mind. Through the maestro's music I am lost to myself. I escape all conscious design and am transported to a bliss exceeding all else. I succumb to the deception of freedom and am left with a cruel emptiness when he is gone, and the music gone with him. I seek out this cycle of bliss and torture, bliss and torture, and I pray for it to never end even as I pray it will cease in the same breath.

With Raoul, I feel secure. My plans seem so nearly attainable that my face must glow at the sight of him. It is none too far from the effects of love on a woman, and he remains as blind to the impossibility of our match as I could ever hope.

Why do men always desire whatever they cannot have? This does work to my favor, and yet… I must be honest with myself if not with anyone else. Secret though I keep my heart, it is moved by each of them in such different ways. It could not be called love. I will not exaggerate. Admiration, respect, the wish to somehow keep them from the heartbreak I must undoubtedly cause one to suffer; I feel each of these things. But upon whom must I impart this certain break? That is the question that nags me without pause. I depend on Raoul for my opera house as I depend on Erik for the ability to run it. With Raoul spurned, I will never own the Populaire. If I cast Erik off I may own it in name but would live in constant fear of the disasters he might cause were our wills to conflict.

Why in the name of heaven did he choose _my_ opera house to haunt?

Shall I decide by who is more deserving of my pretended affections?

Both have professed that they care for me; love me! In that they are both more gifted than I have ever been. I don't believe I am capable of real love. For that I would have to open my heart to more than music, and I do not foresee that possibility. These two men are entirely uncalculating in their emotions. They have already given me the thing most treasured by most women though it is no use to me except in what results it can produce. I do not want their hearts! I did not ask for them, did I? Perhaps not, my thoughts sneer at me, but you stole them nonetheless. And true, I did my utmost to reel in the viscount. Hadn't I told myself I would get him to fall in love with me? But even as I promised myself such, I never imagined he held such a true and selfless devotion. It would ease my mind if he were a despicable fool.

And Erik; Erik who has never known the love of another and would kill for a look or a word of affection. His ways are so unpredictable; I dare not lead him on too strongly or it could spell doom for us all. I cannot reject him completely, just as I cannot accept him completely.

What am I to do?


End file.
